


keep each other in check

by fadewords



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alexithymia, Autistic Beauregard (Critical Role), Autistic Caleb Widogast, Beauregard (Critical Role) Has ADHD, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Local Autistics Don't Know What Their Flesh Vessels Are Trying To Tell Them, Male-Female Friendship, Semiverbal Caleb Widogast, but as i am Very New to learning i did not include my attempts at gloss, feat. sign language, this started to go a lot of different directions but i like where it ended up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 17:11:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19089457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadewords/pseuds/fadewords
Summary: There is the question, now—do they track the thieves down on their own, or wait to meet up with the others?“We should at least wait and ask Jester tonight.”Beau makes a face. “Or,” she says, “we could also not do that.”“But—”“Sitting round waiting for a message isn’t gonna get us anywhere.”“No, but—”“And doing a little preliminary research isn’t gonna hurt. So like. We might as well.”“...Ja, okay.”(or: caleb and beau on a solo mission. a simple job, a couple complications, a bit of good-natured bickering, and a whole lot of awkward caring.)





	keep each other in check

**Author's Note:**

> y'all this was only sposed to be like 2k. and then 5k. and then 10k. and then..........  
> anyways. hope y'all enjoy whatever this is!!

“Wait.” Caleb slips out of Frumpkin-vision. “I just—I need—”

“Seriously? Again?”

“It is cold,” he says, pulling away from Beau, and adjusts his scarf, buttons his coat, turns up the collar.

“Y’really should get a new one. Fewer holes.”

He shakes his head. “This one is fine. It is not—” He frowns faintly. “It is not usually so bad up here, anyway.”

“I mean. It kinda is though.”

Well. That is true.

He remembers harsh winters, of course, in Blumenthal—wells freezing over, windows cracking, gardens flash-rotting, winter nuts so cold they’d crack his teeth if he did not bring them inside for a day first.

It is just that he also remembers running out in the snow barefoot, his father chasing after him with boots, yelling about frostbite; remembers trotting off to the little schoolhouse without a coat or a care; remembers bundling up in so many sweaters for the bulk and the weight and not really the warmth; remembers jokes, later, about the fire in his blood keeping him warm all those years; remembers loathing the oppressive heat of summer, longing always for autumn, for chill winds and large piles of leaves, for deep winter, for numb fingers and dazzling snowfall and cracking ice. (Remembers, remembers.)

“That is true,” he says. “Northern winter is a bitch. Just—for me, it was not usually so bad.”

“No?”

“No.” Snow on his face was a gift, bitter wind a minor annoyance. Now snow numbs his cheeks, wind turns his hair into a weapon against his face, the chill seeps through his coat into his bones. “This—” He tugs on his coat. “—is odd.”

“Must be a hard winter.”

“Mm.” Caleb scratches his cheek. “Maybe, ja.”

“Or you’re just gettin old.”

He shrugs a single shoulder, ignoring the bait. “Maybe,” he repeats. He certainly feels old, right now. Tired, cantankerous. Cursing at the breeze. (So far from the child rolling down the snowbank, hour after hour, until he was giddy and stumbling.) “Just…”

“What. You got another theory? Magic wind? Asshole white dragon?” She casts about. “Some kinda curse?”

He shakes his head again. Tries to lay a hand on the words, the sense of—of—

He shakes it a third time, firmly. “No, it is nothing. I am just...being silly. It has been some time since I was this far north. I suppose I have grown unused to—” He gestures to the bitter landscape.

“Right. Well. We'll keep an eye on you—it. Keep an eye on it anyways.”

“There is no need, I told you I am—”

“Can’t hurt. Now shut up and take this, we gotta go.” She shoves a flask at him.

He takes a swig, hands it back, sputtering a little, and clasps her on the shoulder. “ _Danke_ , Beauregard.”

“Uh-huh. Less talking, more Frumpkin-ing. If we don’t find the next marker soon I’m gonna punch somebody.”

“I am the only one around.”

“Yeah.”

He makes a face at her and slips back into Frumpkin-vision.

-

Caleb is, privately, neither warmed by the drink nor comforted by the idea that he has grown unused to northern winters.

It—is a logical idea, it makes sense, he has avoided the north for five years now, and was not very cognizant of the cold during the previous eleven—and was inside for most of them, besides. So it is—it is fair, it is sensible, to consider that he has become accustomed to warmer climes, that returning to colder ones is an adjustment.

Moreso, perhaps, after spending several months on the warm coast. (But then, the time spent in the east, without sun—there was a chill, there. Or at least, he remembers feeling chilled while there. He does not remember actually seeing any frost on the ground, so perhaps—)

Regardless.

Something about the concept, however logical it is, is—unsettling. It feels—wrong. Or not wrong, precisely—at least not entirely. In some ways—strange, indefinable ones that scatter round the corners of his head and cloy in his lungs, mixing with the metallic edge to the air—it feels very, very right.

Something is _right_ about being so touched by the cold. Something more than just deserving the discomfort. (That is not new, that he deserves to suffer, that he does not deserve nice things. He is always aware of that. It is not the sort of thing one forgets. But _this_ —this is new.)

There is something—something—

He does not have the words. There is just—something.

Something, and it is making his chest crawl, and his skin vibrate, and it is not helping the way his heart thuds painfully every time someone passes by.

They are so near to Blumenthal. So near.

(This is not, strictly speaking, true. They are approximately six-and-a-half days’ walk from Blumenthal, which is a considerable distance—but it is as near to Blumenthal as Caleb has been in over sixteen years, and it is near enough that Caleb is passingly familiar with the journey between from here to there, because he has made it before. He has been here before. Years ago, as Bren. So even though there are miles and miles between Blumenthal and this little village, it is still—)

Too near for comfort. (The jig, as they say, is already up, and it is inevitable that he is going to be discovered—but that does not mean that he is eager to tempt fate.) Someone may recognize him, if he is not careful. (And perhaps even if he is.)

Caleb’s chest pulls a little tighter at the thought.

The thing, he thinks, about having a perfect memory—the thing is that it is not perfect. Not truly. He can remember absolutely everything he has read in the past month and he can remember precisely how many minutes it has been since Beau last spoke and he can remember the terrible way his father’s scream choked off before the world fell away—but he cannot remember the faces of absolutely everyone he has ever interacted with in his life. Sometimes a stranger on the street is no more than a stranger on the street.

But to that stranger you might have been the callous person who knocked them over minutes after they learned their wife died. Just because you do not remember them does not mean they do not remember you. (He has always been aware of this. After Felderwin, after the Cerberus mages, whose knowledge of him he can still only guess—he is painfully aware of this.)

And so, whenever they spot anyone coming towards them on the road, or even wandering near Frumpkin so many feet ahead of him in this large forest, Caleb’s mouth goes dry, and his palms sweat, and his heartbeat clamors in his ears.

He stares at the ground, lets his hair hide his features, and breathes. (It should be enough. _Usually_ it is enough. But with the flutter in his chest already, the unease around his shoulders, the seeping chill—)

He forces himself to keep moving and tries to ignore the jackrabbit colony that is making itself at home in his ribcage (the way one did in the brush back home in Blumenthal, once, just beyond the little gate his mother built).

He takes a deep breath, as deep as he can make it (which isn’t very deep, between the jackrabbits and the bite in the air), and twists his face, and casts the thought aside, throwing himself more fully into Frumpkin’s senses.

The sooner they find the next trail marker, the better.

-

They find it seventeen minutes later, and the next one twelve minutes after that, and the next ten minutes after that, and follow the rest along the little threadbare path that appears and leads to the safehouse.

“Fuckin finally.”

“Finally,” Caleb echoes, and blinks at the sight of Beau pushing the door open. He did not see her picking the lock, but she must have. (He forgets, sometimes, that she was a thief once, before she was a spy.)

Cool.

-

Not cool. Not cool at _all_.

The chest under the floorboards has the files all right, but not the magic items.

_Verdammt._

-

They search the safehouse top to bottom. No magic items.

They search the surrounding area next. No magic items hiding in the trees, either. A bit of a trail, in the fresh-broken branches Beau spots, and the half-dried horse droppings Frumpkin finds, but not much of one, really. All it really tells them is someone was here recently, which isn’t helpful.

Helpful would be knowing where they _went_ , and what they did with the items. They’re not going to get the full reward without the items. (And they _want_ the full reward.)

But there is the question, now—do they track the thieves down on their own, or wait to meet up with the others?

“We should at least wait and ask Jester tonight.”

Beau makes a face. “Or,” she says, “we could also _not_ do that.”

“But—”

“Sitting round waiting for a message isn’t gonna get us anywhere.”

“No, but—”

“And doing a little preliminary research isn’t gonna hurt. So like. We might as well.”

“... _Ja_ , okay.”

-

They get to work.

It is just as well, because they quickly find two leads, and Beau manages to narrow it down to just one very promising one—an apple farmer two miles south of the village.

It is also just as well because Jester does not send them any messages, not at sunset like she has every day since they split for the mission, and not any time after that, either.

“Probably just used up all her spells killin shit,” Beau says, something like fond, and very nearly casual, except that she drums her fingers on her knees twice as fast as usual and her grin is wooden at the edges.

Caleb pretends not to notice. “ _Ja_ ,” he says. “Probably.”

-

Caleb takes first watch. He sends Frumpkin outside the hut, with strict instructions to zip right back if he sees anyone, and sits rigid, staring sightless into the dark.

 _Well_ , he muses, as the hours wear on— _well_. He wanted to stop being anxious about the weather. In a fashion, he has gotten what he wanted. There is, after all, less room for weather-worry now, with the others probably in trouble and possibly dead. (It is terrible to find humor in this, he knows. But there it is.)

At four on the dot, he wakes Beau for her turn and crashes in his bedroll. Lays there flat, staring up at the sky, then the backs of his eyelids. Lays there. Lays there.

Lays there.

Hovers on the edge of dreams, jolts awake. And again. And again. Shifts, indescribably uncomfortable, reaches down unthinking, hand curling round—

Nothing.

...Ah.

He snaps Frumpkin onto his chest, buries his hands in his fur, and—after a very long while—

Sleeps.

-

He wakes three hours later with crusty eyes and an empty feeling in his sternum.

 _Well_ , he thinks, blinking up at the over-bright sky. _Well. This is fair._

-

He lays there for one minute, two, three, and then pushes himself upright, packs up his things, walks over, and plops himself down in front of Beau.

She frowns at him.

He blinks back, brows furrowed. He opens his mouth to ask _what_ but his breath sticks in the base of his throat, so he tilts his head to one side instead.

“Nothin, just—you look like shit.”

He blinks again, nonplussed.

She rolls her eyes. “Worse shit than usual. What’s that about. What’s up. You dead?”

“Tired,” he signs. He snaps Frumpkin onto his lap. “Jester—?”

“Not yet, but it’s still early. Can’t be later than, what, nine?”

“Eight-thirteen.”

“There you go then.” She gestures. “Give her time.”

He nods. Pets Frumpkin. Wipes the crust from his eyes. Blinks a bit hazily.

“You cool to search today?”

“Of course. Why?”

“Y’look half-dead, just makin s—” Beau falls silent, head tilting to match his own.

Caleb’s breath catches. It must be Jester.

“...Damn. Okay. Well, we’re fine too. Got the files, someone stole the goods, we’re searching.” A pause, as Beau counts on her fingers rapidly. “Meet us when you’re done. Message us tomorrow. Stay safe.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“They ran into trouble on their end too, need some more time, but they’re all okay.”

“Trouble?”

Beau makes a face. “She kinda ran out of words, didn’t get much detail. But I got some, and a few guesses on the rest. Fill you in while we eat.”

-

Caleb turns his bread over and over in his hands as Beau talks about the deal going sour and speculates about why and how.

“—telling them not to let Nott handle negotations, but do they _listen_? No, they—”

Caleb tears the roll in half and considers chucking one part at Beau’s face. Nott can negotiate very well when she has to. It is hardly _her_ fault that sometimes people are too stubborn to listen even when she tells them the truth. Beau should know that by now.

He decides, after a long, mulish moment, not to waste the food. (His aim is not good enough, even with Beauregard so close. It would land in the dirt.) He tunes back in instead.

Beau is still talking, but not about Nott anymore. “—all her spells on that, probably, which explains—”

Caleb tears tiny pieces of bread from the center and rolls them between his fingers. It _does_ explain the missed check-in last night, yes. It is reassuring that they were right, but still a little worrying, because—well. It means there was a fight and there was not supposed to be one. (This was supposed to be an easy job, else they would not have split up, no matter how much time it might save. Perhaps this plan was not—)

“You gonna fuckin eat or what?”

Caleb blinks. Considers, for half a second, dropping the bread-bits and tearing off a new piece to eat—tucks them in his mouth instead.

“More than that.”

He takes a Nott-sized bite and rolls his eyes.

“Shut up.”

“Yes, grandmother,” he says, because Beau does not know that sign yet and cannot kill him for it.

She squints. “That wasn’t my name.”

He widens his eyes. “No? Strange.”

She squints harder. “That better not’ve fuckin been ‘mom.’ Kinda looked like it. Was it?”

“No.” _Shiesse_. When did she learn “mother”? Who taught her “mother”? It wasn’t _him_. (Was it Nott? It must have been Nott. He is torn—he is proud of her, she is an excellent student and an excellent teacher and he will never stop being delighted by it—but, also, she needs to _tell him_ these things, so he doesn’t wind up in _situations like this_.)

She keeps squinting. “...Kay.” Then, a beat later, “Wait.” She copies the sign, slowly, mouthing _one, two_ , then scowls. “Is it fucking _grandma_?”

Caleb crams the rest of the bread into his mouth. “Oh look! It is eight forty-two now. We must go.” He pushes himself to his feet and scurries off.

“ _Caleb_!”

-

She socks him on the shoulder when she catches up to him. “Call me grandma one more time.”

His fingers itch, and he nearly does just to spite her, just for the _look_ on her _face_ , but she will sock him again and his shoulder is already numb, so he just nods and tries to keep the small smile off his face.

She grunts. “Y’had a point about getting started though. Let’s go talk that apple guy, huh?”

-

They go to talk to the apple guy. Then the apple guy’s cousin, in the little house on the other end of the orchard.

By lunch, the apple guy’s cousin has given them a bag of apples, a bag of squash, three dirty looks, and the last known location of one of the three magic items (in the wood, he swears), plus a possible location for the other two.

Beau hefts the bag of squash and thanks him over her shoulder, heading for the door the second he’s given them the information they need. Caleb keeps his head ducked and offers a small, apologetic smile from under his hair, along with a neatly-wrapped wheel of cheese from his pocket. (Because that is how these things go, usually. Or at least—in Blumenthal it was. Surplus is always gifted, but everyone appreciates a trade.)

The apple guy’s cousin eyes the cheese mistrustfully, but takes it, unwraps it, and gives them, for the first time, a small smile.

Caleb returns it tiredly, hefts the apples in one hand, waves with the other, and follows Beau out the door.

“Least one of ’em has manners,” he hears the man grumble from behind the door.

Beau stiffens. “What the fuck! I _said_ thanks!”

Caleb ushers her down the walk before the man can open the door.

-

They head for the wood. Half a day’s walk, apple guy said, as the crow flies. The actual road, Caleb expects, will take a bit longer. A day, perhaps two if they are waylaid.

By the time they stop for lunch, a couple of hours later, in the middle of a sunny pasture, Caleb’s legs are sore and his lungs are burning, a little, and his eyes are still drooping—but he’s a little more settled. (They have a plan now. Things are always better with a plan.)

He turns down the squash Beau offers him, but eats an apple all the way down to the core and then pulls bread out of his pocket and eats that too. Then nibbles at the core.

“Still hungry?”

He hums shortly. He can eat. He can also not eat.

Beau tosses him some pocket bacon. “Here.”

He does not catch it. He picks it up off the wet grass, blows on it, eats. Reaches for his voice, cautiously. “... _Danke_.”

“Yeah, anytime.”

-

They get back to walking.

“Done by tomorrow, you think?” Beau says, after a while.

He shrugs. They can only hope.

“This is the part where you say ‘yeah, of course Beau, done by tomorrow, totally.’”

“Yeh, of course Beauregard,” he intones, in his best imitation of her voice and accent, “done by tuhmorrow, to-tully.’”

Beau facepalms.

Caleb keeps his face blank and voice as deadpan as possible as he says, “What is wrong Beauregard. I to-tully did what you, what you asked, maaan.”

Beau tugs on her ears, groaning. “I will pay you to stop. Please.”

“Fifteen gold, maaan.”

“Fuck you. One gold.”

“Done.”

She passes it over, and he pockets it, smug all the way up to his ears.

“Satisfied?”

“...To-tully,” he says, already ducking to avoid her staff. (He doesn't manage to avoid the jab to the ribs, and yelps, but. Worth it.)

-

They make camp within sight of the wood, in good spirits though their faces are scratched from shoving through bracken.

Well. Beau is in good spirits. Caleb is, at best, cautiously optimistic. They’ve made good progress. They may even finish the job before the others join them, if they are lucky.

 _If_ , he thinks, as he lays down after watch, Frumpkin on his chest. _If_.

His last thought, before he slides into uneasy dreams, is that he hopes they are lucky.

-

They are not lucky.

Jester’s next message arrives midway through breakfast and says that they have hit another snag and will be about two more days.

And then, just as they are entering the wood, it begins to drizzle. Caleb sighs inwardly. _Of course_ , he thinks, _of course_ , and snaps Frumpkin away before he can yowl at the wet.

They push on. The water falling thick and fat through the canopy above makes it hard to see the path, and harder still for Caleb to keep his footing, but he manages. They keep to the trail, spot the landmarks (no secret signals here, just instructions to hang left at the big tree with the split down the middle, keep an eye out for the hornet’s nest, straight on past the big boulder shaped like a donkey’s ass), and Caleb only stumbles three times in two hours.

The third, he face-plants. (In the split second before he hits the ground, he thinks, _It is a good thing Nott is not here_. She would have been tucked away in his coat, out of the rain. He would have crushed her.) (In the seconds after, with a mouthful of mud and a bruise blossoming on the bridge of his nose, he thinks, _Shit_.)

“You okay?” Beau hauls him up.

He carefully shrugs off her hand the second he’s upright, spits, and wipes his tongue on his sleeve. “Egh. _Ja_ , fine. Just, eh.” He screws up his face, prods for the word in Common as he wipes mud out of his eyes. “...Clumsy.”

Beau squints. “...Kay.”

Caleb considers wiping the rest of his face partially clean again. Decides not to, leaves it slimy and cold, and follows after her.

It would, after all, take time to stand there and get himself totally clean, and they do not have time, they need to get this job _done_ and meet up with the others and go back south for their payment—and he will only fall and get dirty again later, he was not lying about being a klutz, so it is doubly a waste of time. And triply a waste of time because the rain will undoubtedly clean his face before too long, thick and constant as this drizzle is.

He spares a moment to be glad, again, that Nott is not with them. He hopes it is not raining, wherever exactly she is. He hopes that if it is, someone is carrying her. (Jester, perhaps, if it cannot be him.)

He tightens his scarf, closes his coat, resists the urge to cross his arms, squares his curiously prickling shoulders, and walks on.

(Twenty minutes later, he slips again.)

-

They agree to travel straight through lunch.

At twelve thirty-two, Caleb begins to regret the decision. His shoulders are still prickling, too light, too exposed, and no amount of pulling his coat tighter is fixing it. And his legs are tired, knees sore from all the slipping. And there is a stitch in his side. And his fingertips are trembling, just slightly, at his sides.

One hour, he decides. One hour, and then he will ask for a rest. A very short rest. Just long enough to catch his breath, and pet Frumpkin, and eat something, maybe.

He isn’t particularly hungry, but the trembling can’t be entirely from the cold, so.

(He hopes it is not entirely from the cold. It shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t be.)

So—so—in an hour.

Yes.

-

But forty-three minutes pass and the trees thin out and there’s a clearing and there, yes—a little shed. Graying wood, lichen-spotted—Yeza would love it, he thinks—but not warped, not rotting, not with any visible gaps. Very well-constructed, for such an odd little out-of-the-way thing.

It tickles something in the back of his head, but he ignores it.

Ignores it, until Beau yanks the little door open and brown oats spill out, pooling at their feet.

Caleb steps forward, toes numb inside his threadbare boots, and his fingertips hover over the store of oats in the shed.

_Bren is eight, and he stands on tiptoe in front of the storage barn, the little door flipped open, both his hands buried in the bright grains. He swirls them in circles once, twice, heavy and textured and weird—and then to business, scooping, carefully, until the bucket is full._

_He hands it to his neighbor, who pats his head and sends him home with a small bottle of milk._

_He thanks her and runs along home with it, planting it on the kitchen table so proud, and his mother, his mother—_

Caleb plunges his hand straight down, connecting with—

Many things?

He begins pulling them up. There are four in total.

He studies them for a moment, clustered at his feet, and then closes up the little shed. Sits down beside it, facing away, and begins to Identify each of the four objects.

Three are not magic. He casts them aside like rubbish, barely hearing Beau’s protests (or rather, hearing them, but as though from very far away, only sound and no substance).

The fourth, though. There’s something arcane about it, something— _please_ , he thinks. _Please_.

—Yes.

He straightens, looks up.

“Well?” Beau’s mouth says. (His ears are still fogged.)

“ _Ja_ ,” he says. “This is the one we want. Those others, they are nothing. Junk.”

“Right,” she says, and sound pops back into the world with startling clarity. “Well. Damn, okay. Let’s go chase down the others I guess.”

For a split second Caleb thinks she means the rest of the Nein, and his chest does something complicated—but then he realizes: no. She means the other objects. It settles back to its off-beat fluttering.

“ _Ja_ ,” he says. “Let’s go.”

-

By nightfall, they've extracted the exact location of the other two objects from some rather stubborn locals. (There is no old family feud to ease the transfer of information along, this time.)

Or rather, Beau has extracted it from them. She did all the talking. Caleb mostly stood off to one side with muddy hair in his face and fire in his hand. (A little intimidation never hurts.)

And now they know that the artifacts are in a safehouse several miles away, past the fields, under guard by an elf and a dwarf who use a poleax and a shortsword, respectively.

They agree, in a quick Message sidebar, that it is getting too late to run after the artifacts now. They are too exhausted, both of them, to do much good in a fight.

So Beau threatens the locals with broken teeth if they try to warn their friends and Caleb says in his mildest tone that he will turn their entrails to ashes if they even think about it, and they leave. (Frumpkin stays behind to watch over them, in case the threats are not enough.)

They’re already well beyond the outskirts of what passes for the village, so they already must camp, so they decide to walk a little further down the road.

There are not many houses, as they go. The place is every bit as scattered and sprawling as he remembers. (So different from Blumenthal, he remembers thinking as a child—but looking now, with more travelled eyes, it is so similar in spirit and customs that he finds himself both charmed and unbearably itchy.)

They cross through a few unplowed fields and down the road some more, until the sky is so dark that Caleb cannot see his hand in front of his face.

And then they stop. They make camp. Caleb mutters his way through the nightly protection spells, they scarf down dinner, Beau crashes barely a foot from his knee.

He keeps watch, then wakes her to trade out.

-

Caleb tosses and turns. (What he wouldn’t give, he thinks vaguely, for a proper blanket. A thick quilt, heavy, rough stitching to pick at, to run his fingers over—)

(What he wouldn’t give, he thinks vaguely, for a goblin at his ankles. For a cat on his—)

He slips into Frumpkin’s senses, checks on the locals. Still there. Still looking spooked.

He keeps watching, just for a little while. It’s not the same as feeling Frumpkin’s weight on his chest, but it’s—it’s something, at least.

He slips back out and tries to sleep. Tries.

Succeeds, eventually.

-

_It is raining and he has no coat, no shirt, no boots. Nott clings to his chest, dripping. Something crawls up his spine and—_

_-_

_He tries to run, and the ground tears like wet paper, and—_

_-_

_He lazes against the wall, hand palm-up in front of himself, flicking fire to his fingertips. And again. And again. And again. The dissident sweats. He steps forward and—_

_-_

_The air smells of seared wheat. The sky is solid orange. Caduceus’s hat lies charred on the ground, surrounded by beetles. He can’t—_

_-_

_His childhood home burns. The neighbor screams._

_-_

_Nott’s flask glints in Beau’s hand. It falls, and so does she. Smoke rises. Ash falls. The smell—_

-

He wakes paralyzed. Can’t move can’t breathe can’t scream. Can only stare, frozen, at the sky above, with its thousands and thousands of pinprick stars, and try not to drown in them. Try not to sink into the earth. Try not to think about how much it feels like Hold Person, because of course it is not Hold Person it is just a nightmare just a nightmare he is fine he is fine he will be fine as soon as he can—

Move.

The paralysis breaks. He sits up. Presses his hands hard to his face, to his eyes, until he sees sparks and they make him nauseous and he has to let go.

So he does.

Finds Beau staring at him. He thinks there’s a question in her eyes, probably.

He shakes his head—can’t answer. He can move, breathe, scream if he really wants, probably—but speaking is out of the question, and signing is too much trouble.

He lays back down and tries to go back to sleep instead. Tomorrow’s work is too important to stay awake til dawn.

-

_He does not burn. He runs. He runs, he runs, he runs._

-

He wakes early in the morning with a strangled gasp and stones in his chest and hot rocks in his skull. All the hallmarks of a very unpleasant day.

But no matter. They will be done with this job soon. Maybe they can get a room at the inn, after. Maybe they can get two beds.

Maybe.

For now, though, he dismisses the bubble, checks the locals—asleep—resummons Frumpkin, and fumbles through his pack for breakfast. He isn't particularly hungry, but going into a fight without eating first is a terrible idea, and he doesn't want to die, so he makes a couple cheese sandwiches, slowly, and begins to eat one, even more slowly.

It's like eating sand, both in terms of taste and texture. The dry bread scratches the roof of his mouth, scrapes back of his throat, sets them both stinging.

He passes Beau the other sandwich without a word and makes what he hopes is sympathetic face, because she looks as exhausted as he feels.

She blinks down at the sandwich in her hands like she's never seen it before. Furrows her brow. Glares at it. Then at him, squinting. “What the fuck, Caleb.”

“What,” he says, voice ragged at the edges. “You do not like the—” He yawns. “—the cheese?”

“No! Just—” She gestures sharply. “Thought we were keeping an eye on you.”

Caleb stifles another yawn, tilts his head to the side. “You said we were keeping an eye on my physiological response _to the weather_. And I do not have frostbite, so—”

“Psychological,” Beau says.

“...Psychological,” Caleb repeats. The word tastes like old tea leaves, crumbling. He clears his throat.

“Yeah, like all that in-your-head shit. Like—”

“I know what psychological means.” Caleb twirls his hand in a short sharp circle, almost as clipped as his tone. _You do not spend eleven years in an asylum without hearing it_ , he doesn’t say, because it is too many words and she does not give him enough _time_.

“Right, yeah. So that. You getting all inside your head. That’s what I was talking about. That’s what we were watching out for.”

“You did not say that,” Caleb says, “but okay.”

A beat, then, “I swear to gods Caleb.” Then, “Anyway. My point is you look like shit. Cause you slept like shit. Cause you’ve been all in your _head_ and you didn’t _tell me_.”

“I did not—”

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember waking up terrified two hours ago, mister I-remember-everything.”

“ _Ja_ , well—”

“And you tossed and turned all night. Muttered a lot too. Fuckin loud.”

Caleb isn’t sure what his face does in response, but it must be something, because Beau tacks on, “I, uh, couldn’t make out much though. You were kinda incoherent. Lot of it wasn’t even words.”

She means to be reassuring, he thinks. He does not feel reassured.

“Oh.” It does...make sense, of course. And explains the ragged voice—if it wasn’t all words, he was probably shouting at some point. Possibly screaming. Possibly whimpering. And—well, it explains why she’s so angry. It must have disturbed her, made the watch difficult—the bubble is not soundproof after all. The chances of being noticed—of people waiting until the spell runs out and attacking— “...Sorry.”

“Fuck off, don't be sorry,” Beau says, punching his shoulder. “Just...be honest. Are you gonna check out on me today?”

“Check out?” he echoes, rubbing his shoulder.

“Yeah, like. You gonna have an episode? Or like. Get distracted, pass out, get dizzy, yawn when we’re stealthing, trip over your own feet—shit like that.”

He resists the urge to yawn. “The last three are not ‘checking out,’ technically.”

“Answer the question Widogast.”

“I will not do any of those things.” Probably. He does not plan to kill anyone today, so he should be safe from any episodes, and it is not raining, so he should not trip. And none of the others are likely.

“You're sure? Cause you look like shit, man. Deep fried.”

“Well I will not pretend the sun is shining out of my asshole, Beauregard. I feel like shit, _ja_ , I am tired. But _ja_ , I am sure. I will be fine.” A pause, a critical eye. “Will you?”

“What's that sposed to mean?”

“You also look like shit, Beauregard.”

“Fuck you, I look great.”

“Of course.” He takes a tasteless bite of sandwich. Then, mildly, “There is goop in your eyes.”

She swipes it away, scowling. “Fuck you. It's your fault anyway. Making me take last watch _again_.”

“ _Ja_ , well—” His voice cracks. He yawns loudly. “You agreed.”

“Under duress,” she says, a little muffled, as she jams half of her sandwich in her mouth.

“That is not how I—” He yawns again, shakes his head roughly. Goes still and lead-faced as a short, sharp pulse runs through his temples. “...not how I remember it.”

“Mmph.” Beau finishes the rest of her sandwich in seconds. “Whatever.” She stands, stretches. “Finish your shit, we gotta go.”

Caleb takes another bite and jams the rest of the sandwich in his pocket for later.

“That’s not what I—” Beau says. “...Okay, fine, whatever. We’ll talk later. Let’s go.”

He pushes himself to his feet. “Have you heard from Jester?” She would probably have told him already if she had, but perhaps it’s slipped her mind. That happens, sometimes.

“Nah, not yet.” Beau tugs at the wrappings on her arms. “She probably got busy.”

“Probably.”

-

Caleb wants to sit down. He has yawned no less than eleven times in the last hour. He has held back several more.

After the twelfth, Beau frowns at him. “Dude. Can’t you quit?”

“Sorr—” Caleb muffles another yawn behind his hand. “Sorry. I am trying.”

“Well can you try harder? You’re gonna give us away. Pretty sure they can hear you in fuckin Nicodranas, man.”

“...Sorry.” Caleb scrubs his eyes, smacks a little at his cheeks. Stifles another yawn.

Beau sighs. “Hopeless. Look, should we just change the plan? Full speed ahead, no stealthing?”

Caleb shakes his head rapidly, heart skipping a beat. (It’s a mistake. His temples throb.) “ _Nein_ ,” he says. “No, no, I have something that should help, we do not need to—do that.”

“What, like, a spell? Tea?”

He shakes his head, stops in his tracks, patting his pockets. “Something else. More—” He begins fishing around, feeling for—yes, there. He pulls out a waterskin, holds it up. “More basic. See?”

“...Uh, no.”

He blinks, frowning. “It is a common—well, maybe you would not know it. But it is a common remedy, cold water. My mother, she used to…”

A warm summer morning, a cold mug in his little grasp, a blanket round his shoulders. A soft voice, mumuring, a little sympathy, a little clucking, a little _next time do not stay up reading until the dawn, hmm?_ , a little—

“—Caleb?”

He blinks. “Mm?”

“You were telling me how hydrating yourself is supposed to help your whole...situation?”

There are words—shock, system, stimulus, alert, excess heat, superstition—but they are hard to reach, at the moment, and harder to string together coherently, so he just says, “It is cold.”

“...Right. Okay. Well—do your thing and let’s keep going.”

He does his thing. (It helps, a little. It chills him from the inside out, but he feels more awake, and that is something.)

They keep going.

-

When they approach the house—when they can see it over the hill—Caleb pulls out the waterskin again and takes a long drink. Wets his hand and swipes his face. Keeps walking.

-

He runs through his spells in his head as Beau picks the lock on the back door, runs through them again as they pick their way down the cellar, as they count three, as Beau opens the door and they rush in and—

Chaos.

-

There are two extra people. One nearly Charms Caleb in seconds. For that, he turns her robe halfway to ashes.

He focuses on her, on knocking her out and Counterspelling as many big moves as possible, and trusts Beau to handle the other three. Hasted as she is, he is sure she will be fine. (Mostly sure. Mostly fine. He hopes. They do not have Jester or Caduceus, so—)

She will be fine. (She must.)

Really, he is more concerned about himself. (And when isn’t he, of course, but—this is not that. This is—)

Everything is a lot. Swords clash and feet strike stone and staff hits flesh and lightning crackles and magic sizzles and threads twitch and tug and hum loud, loud, loud, and—

That is fine, that is normal—but there’s a pull on his limbs, as the threads thicken—a pull on his arms, a weight in his legs, making them thick and slow and pathetic—

So he is taking damage.

Which is not new, of course, but it is, it is less than ideal. He does not want to drop Haste, after all. (He is managing, so far, he is managing, Beau is flitting round the room and has already knocked out one of the others and has not crashed—but it is only a matter of time. Literally. She has twenty-four seconds left, even if he holds on.)

He exchanges spells almost on autopilot, back and forth, casting and blocking and trying not to think about how he is almost down to cantrips.

Through the chaos, he’s vaguely aware of Beau knocking out the elf with the two-handed axe and then going very still.

Two down, he thinks, and _verdammt_ , and rattles off another Fire Bolt, throws off another Charm spell.

Then he casts Haste on Beau again and ducks behind a barrel and tries to breathe. One breath. Two. Three four five, quick, ragged, as his heart pounds, and he wants very much to stay here until everything is over but—from the other side of the room, the scrape of footsteps on stone and a buzzing that can only be magic and—

He stands and peeks out just as lightning hits the wall behind Beau’s head, scorching the stone.

Beau swears and darts further sideways, favoring one leg. (When did she get hurt?)

In the center of the room, the caster begins to move her hands. Caleb dashes forward, sends three Magic Missiles at her.

They all hit, and she barely flinches, but she does turn, lock eyes with him, take a step forward. Caleb feels satisfaction settle on his shoulders like a mantle (or maybe it’s relief). He goes for Magic Missile again, stronger this time—

Hits the caster dead in the chest. She staggers. Glares at him, raises a hand—

He turns—barrel, barrel—

 _Pain_.

Lightning-hot, searing into his shoulder, spiking down his arm, across his chest—

His knees crack on the damp cellar floor and he winds Haste tighter in his imagined grasp. Tighter. He is fucked but he can do this, at least. He can do _this_.

Footsteps, heavy, scraping, but quick. The caster, moving forward. About to finish him off.

He forces his head up and over, a spell on his leaden tongue, though it is too late, of course too late, her blurry form looms mere feet from him—

The woman goes limp. Collapses sideways. The wet crack of her skull on the stone echoes dull in his ears.

And there is Beau stepping up in her place, staff still raised.

He gives her a tight, appreciative smile and turns the other way, still muttering haltingly, searching for the final thief, no sense letting this spell go to—

Oh. There she is, across the room. Limp, bruised, bleeding. Possibly dead? Certainly incapacitated. And—he scans the rest of the cellar—yes, the others are still down, too. He and Beau are alone. Safe.

He stops mid-word and lets the spell fizzle out. Slumps forward, a little, clutching his shoulder. One breath. Two. “Sit—sit down.”

He can feel Beau giving him a funny look, but she sits across from him. “You all right?”

“Mm.” He clutches his shoulder tighter, closes his eyes, and lets go of Haste.

“Ugh,” Beau says, and there’s quiet for a few moments as they both just breathe. Then less quiet, as the stun wears off and Beau curses. Then shifting, scuffling, clinking, and an awful scrape, glass on stone, as she slides a potion towards him. “Here. Drink.”

Caleb lets go of his shoulder. Stretches out his good arm. Picks up the bottle with trembling fingers, braces himself to try opening it—finds it already open. He flashes Beau a smile that is probably not very good, in thanks, and drinks.

Grimaces horribly, clutching the bottle tight as the flesh in his shoulder knits back together, as something eases round his ribs, as a dozen little shock-burns scab over. When it stops, he rolls his shoulders and tries to stick the empty potion bottle in his pocket—Nott will want it later, for acid storage. He manages on the third go, sighs, and opens his eyes.

Beau is frowning at him. “You good?”

“Mm.” He rolls his shoulder one more time. It itches, tugs a little in the way fresh-healed skin often does, but it doesn’t _hurt_ , not like before. So. “... _Ja_.”

“All right.” Beau pulls another potion out of her pack and chugs it. Stands carefully, shifts her weight from one foot to the other, winces. “Yeah, okay, that’s still a bit fucked. Not broken though, so hey.”

He flaps a hand at her. “Mmm. Sit.”

“You’re not my dad.” But she sits.

Caleb tells Frumpkin to go sit on her lap and be cute, waits a minute and thirty seconds, watching Beau scritch behind his ears, and then pulls spare bandages and a jar of ointment out of his bag and sets them on his knees. Rests his hands on top of them, trying to gather the will to say it—just _say it_ —

He grimaces and raps the floor with his fist, hard.

Beau glances up. “What?”

He stares at her ankle. “Sprain?” he signs. “I—”

“It’s fine, I can—”

“You cannot.” He looks up, smug. “You have Frumpkin.” That will, of course, be enough to deter her. (...At least, he hopes it will be enough. It should. It must. He does not want to cast Suggestion. He would be completely out of spells then, reduced entirely to cantrips and rituals, and that—that—that is not. Ideal. The very prospect makes him itchier than the healing potion.)

“...Fine,” Beau says eventually, with a look that says she doesn’t believe for a second that Frumpkin climbed in her lap without direction. “Make it snappy.”

 _Snappy_ , he agrees vaguely, and begins.

Beau squirms as he applies the ointment, and sucks in air through her teeth a couple times as he brushes over tender places, but otherwise doesn’t complain. She goes very, very quiet and very, very still while he binds her ankle, and then gives an exaggerated sigh of relief when he lets go and scoots back. Mutters thanks, her eyes trained on her own fingers, buried in Frumpkin’s fur.

He ignores her, swipes his cold, slimy fingers on his jacket, and begins the ritual for Detect Magic. At the end of it, Beau glows like the sun. He winces, squinting, and looks away, around the room, seeing spots and color-flashes more than walls and corners—winces again when he catches sight of what is _probably_ the barrel, underneath a streaking shine _nearly_ as bright as Beau.

Caleb tells Frumpkin to pretend to sleep, and then scratches his beard and pushes himself to his feet, blinking a little at the headrush. (The dark spots in his vision are a little more tolerable than the searing magic-shine, but still unwelcome. He is under orders not to pass out.)

“Sit back down dumbass, I can—”

Caleb frowns. “No.”

“The fuck I can’t. Just tell me where it—”

“Frumpkin.”

She glances down at where her fingers rest tangled in his fur and glares. “He doesn’t _need_ sleep, he’s not even a real cat!” But she doesn’t push him off, and she doesn’t stop petting him.

Caleb walks over to the barrel, hauls out the three glowing things inside, and walks back over to Beau. Drops them on the ground, eases himself beside them, waits for his head to stop pounding. “You keep watch,” he says, glancing at the door, and then begins casting Identify.

Thirty-three minutes later, they are the proud temporary owners of the last two artifacts they needed, plus a bonus Hat of Obstinance.

“The fuck does that do. Immunity to Charm? Turn into a mule? Extra endurance?”

“Suppose,” Caleb says, “someone tells you to take the hat off. You refuse.”

“That’s _it_?”

“Yes.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Yes.” Caleb pauses. Considers. “But suppose you sell hats. Useful.”

“Until someone runs off in your goddamn hat.”

He shrugs. Yawns. Tosses it aside.

Beau reaches over and snags it. At his questioning look, she says, “Jester’ll get a kick out of it.”

He hums agreement, tries to think through the fog rising in his head. “...It is one thirty-two,” he says eventually, for lack of anything else.

“Yeah,” Beau says. “Yeah. We should go, you’re right, fore these fuckers wake up. Just—give me few minutes.”

Caleb gives her one-hundred-and-eighty seconds precisely, and then snaps Frumpkin back onto his own shoulders, stands, and offers her a hand up.

She rolls her eyes and bats it away. Pushes herself to her feet, unwavering, and walks off, not quite limping, but a bit stiff.

He trails after her.

-

It’s slow going, even with the path traced out in Caleb’s head this time.

Beau’s at three-quarters-speed, with her leg still hurt. And then half-speed, as the minutes wear on, and a stiff wind picks up, and the not-quite-limp grows more pronounced.

Out of the corner of his eye, Caleb watches bruises bloom slow on her cheeks, and a little less slow on her stomach. He wants to call for a rest—she should not be on her feet so much, she is beat to shit, and going to make the sprain worse besides, and then where will they be?

But the one time he tries, she refuses.

“We gotta get past the hills first, case anyone wakes up and comes after us.”

Caleb cannot argue with her logic, and so on they go.

-

He keeps pace with her precisely, neither too fast nor too slow, and tries not to look over his shoulder. Tries not to think too much about how long they spent in the cellar, how soon the thieves should be waking, how quickly they should meet up with the group and get out of dodge, how many hours it has been since they heard from them, how sharply his hair is lashing his cheeks, how heavy his legs are getting, how—

He tries not to think.

-

Almost two hours later, they’re on the edges of the scattered handful of houses that passes for a village center. A cluster of mossy boulders sits to their left, arranged nearly in a circle, with a few irregular gaps.

“Beauregard,” Caleb says, tongue clumsy.

“Yeah. C’mon.”

-

They agree wordlessly that sitting in the center of the almost-circle is probably harmless, but still better avoided. (They are probably just rocks, but they could be fey-touched, or a monument to the dead, or spirit-linked, or otherwise enchanted, and there are some chances, Caleb knows, and Beau agrees, that you simply do not take.)

So they sit on the far side, away from the road, and don’t touch the rocks. Not even the very, very worn one with the thickest, deepest-green moss. (It tempts Caleb’s fingers so much he has to sit on them. Soft or no, there are some chances—)

It is a good thing Yeza is not here, he thinks abruptly. The man would not be able to resist. He would want to not just touch the moss, but peel it off the rocks, too, perhaps even sample it—and that would of course be bad, probably. So it is—

Nott would be tempted, too. Perhaps in part for herself, for her own curiosity, but like as not mostly for Yeza’s sake. It would remind her of Yeza. She might want to save a sample for him—start a new collection, to send back with the next batch of buttons and coin and rings. And that of course would also be bad, probably, and it might make her a little sad to hold off, maybe? So it is probably good that she is—that she is not—that—

“Here,” Beau says, and his shoulders jump a little, and she tosses pocket bacon and a little bag of dried berries at him. They bounce off his chest.

He blinks at the food in his lap. He has a sandwich in his pocket, he does not need—

“Eat.”

Caleb eats. It tastes like crunching. Caleb swallows. It tastes like sandpaper.

He pulls out his waterskin and drinks—one swallow, two—then lowers it, frowning.

“Something wrong?”

He upends the skin, shakes it twice. Watches two fat drops fall to the frosted grass, and then nothing.

“Oh. Well, shit. Didn’t think that cold-water shit through, did you?”

He frowns, but doesn’t disagree. She isn’t wrong. He was foolish. So used to having clerics on hand to create water from nothing, so eager to relive days he has long since lost the rights to—he did not think.

“Fuck. Sorry, uh. You want some of mine? Here.” She passes him her own waterskin.

He holds it a moment, trying to judge how much is left—mostly full, good—and drinks maybe a quarter. There are a good few hours to the other end of the village yet, at this pace. Beau is going to get thirsty. He cannot drink all of her water just because he was too stupid (stupid, stupid, narrow-sighted) to avoid draining his own. He passes it back, signs his thanks.

“Sure.”

Caleb lays back in the crunchy grass, carefully, and summons Frumpkin to lay on his chest. It’s nice, for a while, laying there petting him while Beau finishes her food, and he almost thinks he might drift off—but he can’t have that.

Reluctantly, he snaps Frumpkin away. The drowsiness recedes, but so does the warm haze, leaving him uncomfortably aware of the damp chill on the back of his neck, in his hair, and along his coat. The wind slices just above his nose.

Caleb sighs and sits up. Scrubs his face with both hands, takes a few deep breaths—finds there’s no room for them in his chest, goes back to shallow ones. Resigns himself to the small, insistent burn below his sternum, and the ceaseless thrum below that. (He is so tired.)

“Nice nap?”

Caleb is pretty sure he did not lie there long enough for it to be considered a nap, and is also pretty sure that actually sleeping is a requirement there, regardless, but he doesn’t bother arguing, just hums.

“Ready to hit the road?”

“...Yes.”

-

They’ve been walking for twenty exhausting minutes when Beau stops in her tracks and sneezes, then immediately swears.

Unease prickles over him. (Her midsection has been tie-dye since before they stopped for lunch, marbled blue and purple like the blankets the man two hills over—Herr Weber, with the glass eye and the gardens—used to sell in spring.) He prods for his voice. “...Beauregard?”

She’s already walking again, not looking at him, arms crossed, gripping her robes at her sides, knuckles gone tight. “What.”

Alarm bells toll in his skull. The burn in his chest sinks lower. (How has he missed this? Jester would not have missed it. Caduceus would not have either. Nor Nott, nor Fjord. But of course none of _them_ are—)

Focus.

“How many broken ribs do you have.”

“Uh, none?”

“How many.” He signs it at the same time, sharp.

“None! They’re just bruised.”

He makes a disbelieving sound.

She stops walking, turns. “You wanna come check?”

He does, in fact, want to come check.

“Go ahead.”

He goes ahead. Prods her gently, trying not to press too hard on the darkest spots. “...They are just bruised,” he says doubtfully, after a minute, with a small frown. He’s not—not quite sure, the bruising is bad, and there is swelling, and he doesn’t want—he can’t just—

She swats his hands away. “Told you! Potion fixed me up, I’m good.”

“Mm.” He takes a step back, plucks words like stones from sucking-mud. “It did not fix enough.” Pauses, squinting. Signs, “You want rest?”

“Hell no. Sooner we get to a bed, the better. I’m sleeping for three weeks straight.”

He knows the feeling, so he hums, and on they go.

-

Caleb twines his fingers in his scarf and tugs.

Beau is in obvious pain. She’s not complaining, she’s not even wincing, but she’s limping more and more, and her boots keep scraping uneven in the dirt, and—

Caleb tugs on his scarf again. The noise is grating.

And that is okay, that is fine, she cannot help it, he cannot begrude her that—but it is also irregular, unpredictable, and _that_ —

That.

He keeps jumping, is the thing. Every time the sound comes, just a little. Shoulders hunching, face closing, _jolt_ in his step, _jolt_ in his skull and he just—he is so—

He flinches and tugs on his scarf a third time, closing his eyes against the stuttering _thud_ in his chest, the _ache_ in his temples, the awful prickling down his face and back. (He wants to lay down in the dirt and sleep for a week, warm dry beds be damned.)

He breathes. In, shallow. Out, shallower. A little deeper, a little longer—uneven, halting, useless, useless. He is no less winded. He keeps at it anyway, opens his eyes, keeps walking. Adjusts his scarf, lets go. (Rewraps his hands in it almost immediately. They are too empty, without it, too empty, and too stiff.)

Ten minutes later, Beau’s boot scuffs against a stray stone. Caleb jumps.

Rinse, repeat.

-

Caleb yawns. The half-forgotten headache blares, scatters sparks behind his eyes. He scrubs them, blinks hard, pinches his arms, keeps walking. (He thinks, vaguely, of forges, of anvils. Of Caduceus, and the broken hilt he carries everywhere. Of Caduceus, and how very far away he is. Of Jester, and how very long it has been since her last message. Of—)

He digs his fingers into his forearms and tries not to think. Yawns again barely three minutes later. Winces at the renewed blaring, the fresh sparks. (Thinks of his childhood home, and the night sky above it, littered with stars, and sometimes fireflies, and once, once, smoke and so very many glowing orange—)

He scratches his arms and tries not to think. Ten minutes pass, mostly successful, and he shivers violently at a fresh gust of wind.

Rinse, repeat.

-

Caleb snaps Frumpkin onto his shoulders and tells him to purr loudly.

It helps, some. He is warmer, and the buzzing in his head softens. The fluttering in his chest slows.

Neither vanishes.

-

It is half-four (where has the day gone?), and the sky is darkening. It is getting hard to see where they are going, but that is all right, because they have reached the final bend in the road and only have to walk straight from here.

Except it is not so all right, because after a while Beau trips on—something. Crashes to the ground with an undignified yelp and a small muffled hiss.

She stands before he can offer a hand up—sways a little.

Caleb steadies her. Frowns. Forces himself to say, “We are taking a break. Sit down.”

“Fuck you,” Beau says, but pulls away to sit on the side of the road.

He squints, and she is wearing the goggles, so he points at her waterskin and signs, “Drink.”

She drinks.

The swarm of bats fluttering in his chest contracts. The spiders on his shoulders multiply, prickling under Frumpkin’s weight. After seven long minutes, dithering at her side, he says, “We should make camp.”

He hopes she will say yes, so she will finally stop pushing herself, so she will rest, so they can both rest. He hopes she will say no, because if she says no it is not so bad, it is not so worrying, it is normal. He would kill for normal, right now. (He would also kill for rest. He is so tired. Surely Beau is also tired. She looks—)

“ _Fuck_ no,” Beau says. “I told you, I want a bed.”

The relief—is it relief? Whatever it is, sweeping over him now, it’s dizzying. Caleb scratches one thumbnail with the other and breathes until the wave passes. “Okay.”

She drinks a little more, sits a little more, then stands, makes to start walking again. Caleb taps her, and she turns, scowling. “What?”

He tries to fix a stern look on his face. Like Nott at her most firm. Like Beau herself, mid-lecture. (He isn’t so sure it works.) “You must lean on me. No passing out.”

“I’m not gonna—”

“Knock it off!” he says, glaring. “You already fell down once.”

“...Point,” Beau says. “That’s fuckin. That’s fair. Ugh. Fine. Just don’t make it fuckin weird.”

There are several things Caleb could say in response, and a handful he _wants_ to say, but some will probably get him punched and all are too much trouble, so he just snaps Frumpkin away, beckons her forward, and tries not to make it weird as she slings an arm round his shoulders.

She grumbles about it, but doesn’t whack him, so he must succeed well enough, he thinks. That is good.

And on they go.

-

It is slower going after that.

Beau complains, a little, but Caleb doesn’t mind. He doesn’t have to worry about trying to patch up a broken nose, now, or trying to drag an unconscious body several feet away from the main road, or trying to keep watch over said unconscious body while he sets up the alarm and dome. This is good. These are good things.

Also good—it gives him an excuse to slow down, to drag his feet some. (Finally, finally, he has been waiting all day for a passable one.)

So—so he does not mind. It is nice, in that way.

Less nice—he misses Frumpkin. His presence, his warmth. But there is nothing to be done about that. Caleb cannot bear both Beau’s arm and Frumpkin’s body across his shoulders at the same time.

And it is just as well, anyway. He feels heavy enough as it is without several additional pounds of magic cat weighing him down. And the purring—it would be too much, now. (Even his own breathing is nearly too much. Overloud in his ears, harsh. Second only to the pounding in his skull, and followed closely by the beat of his worn-ragged heart, loud and thudding like he’s run miles instead of walked them, and terribly spaced, like someone has cast Slow on it, or on him, or both.)

So—so just as well. He does not need the extra noise.

(Nevermind that he could tell Frumpkin to be quiet. That is not the point. The point is—)

He plods on, Beau limping at his side. There will be sleep, soon.

-

“—aleb?”

He jumps, winces, pats at her hand dangling over his shoulder. “Mmh?”

Beau pulls away. “D’you wanna just hike that way a bit and camp in the bubble?”

“Why?” He squints. “Your ribs—”

“No, they’re still fine, I’m all good, just—you sound kinda wrecked.”

He furrows his brow. “I have not spoken verbally?”

“No, not—” Beau sighs. “I mean, fair. But I meant the whole—” She waves a hand at him. “The wheezing thing.”

“I am not wheezing,” Caleb says. “Wheezing implies a whistle. I—”

“I’m guessing that’s ‘whistle’?” She doesn’t wait for confirmation, just barrels on. “Semantics, dude. You’re breathing fuckin loud, is the point. Ergo, you sound wrecked, _ergo_ , you wanna stop for the night, I’m game.”

...Oh.

“Yeah, _oh_. So you wanna camp or what?”

“You—?”

“Forget what I want. What do _you_ want?”

Caleb considers. Flounders. Settles, after thirty-four long seconds, on “Bed.”

Beau studies him a moment, then nods, apparently satisfied with whatever it is she sees. “Kay. Let’s get going then.” A pause. “One condition.”

“Mmh?”

“You drink this.” She presses her waterskin into his hands. “All of it. And you stick close to me. Deal?”

“…Okay.” He drains the waterskin, wipes his mouth, hands it back, catches his breath. Steps closer to her again, slings her arm over.

And off they go, shoulder-to-shoulder.

-

They make it to the other end of the village at five thirty-nine. They make it to the inn at five forty-seven.

Beau orders them a single room. Caleb watches, at first, then stares at the floor, finding patterns in the hazy wood-grain. (That spot almost looks like Frumpkin…)

Beau tugs on his sleeve.

He jerks away, hands flying up to his ears, then down to his chest, pressing. Then down to his sides and one of them up a little, offering. (This, he knows, is where he should paste on an apologetic smile. Should. But he’s run out, the cupboards are bare, his face is wooden as ever.)

Beau doesn’t care. She moves closer, lets him clumsily arrange his arm, stretches her own across his shoulders, and heads for the stairs.

He keeps up, watching his feet—one, then the other, and again, and again, so he won’t miss any of the steps. If he does, and he trips, and he falls, he will bring Beauregard down with him, and then her ribs really _will_ be broken, and they really do not need that tonight, on top of everything. (Also, assuming she does not simply puncture a lung and die, she will never let him live it down.)

(Even if she _does_ puncture a lung and die—if revived, she will never let him live it down. And if not—she’ll haunt him.)

( _And not fuckin metaphorically_ , says the Beauregard in his head. _Or as part of your damn guilt complex. I’d haunt the shit out of you one-hundred-percent literally_.)

(And she would.)

So he watches his feet.

Makes it up, in the end, without tripping. Along the hall, still staring at his feet as they trail over the floorboards, scuffing far worse now than Beau’s. Stops when Beau stops. Glances up.

She unlocks the door, shoves it open, pushes him inside. He stumbles, catches himself, and is about to faceplant on the bed when he realizes— _the_ bed.

There’s only one of them in here. (Of course there is.) And Beau only has one key. (Of course she does.) (Of course, of course.)

(It is just their luck, part of him thinks, that there was only one room, only one bed. Just their luck. Just his luck.) (It is not _that_ , another, more sensible part objects. It is not that at all. It is only that this is such a small, stretched-out village. Of course their inn is not very large. Of course it must not have many rooms, many beds. There cannot be need for them, very often. One or two must do them just fine, usually. What more do you need for the occasional neighbor who does not want to make the treck back to their place before dawn?)

(Of course. Of course.)

Caleb blinks at the bed for several long seconds, then turn round and fumbles in his pocket instead. Silver string, silver string….

He sets the Alarm carefully, and then walks back to the bed, slides to the floor, leans against the frame. Closes his eyes. Waits for his head to stop pounding.

Wonders, vaguely, as it slides back into silence, when the headache is going to make up its mind. Is it going to go away, or is it going to get bad enough to make him sick, or is it just going to sit here, in-between, and complain whenever he moves too much? (Probably the last. It is usually how these things go.)

He casts the matter aside and wonders about the dome instead. Should he set that up too, in case the thieves have followed them? Really, it would have been better to just kill them, once stealthing failed. They should have just—

Although, he thinks abruptly. If he sets up the dome now, and Jester tries to send a message before she goes to bed, her spell will not get through.

Was that the problem this morning? Did she try early, when he was still sleeping, and had not dismissed the bubble yet? Is it his fault that they have not heard from her, has _she_ been worried about _them_ all day, has—?

“Caleb?”

He flinches. The headache slams back in, so sudden and all-encompassing he has to scrunch his eyes shut. He pries them back open a moment later, squints at Beau.

“S’just me.”

He flaps a hand, half-dismissive, half-searching for the right word. “What.”

“Got any more of that weird cream stuff?”

He scrubs his face, a little bleary, scratches his wrist. “...Mm.”

“Can I have some?”

“...Mm.” A pause. “ _Ja_.”

“Cool.” She holds out a hand.

Oh. Now. She means now.

Caleb fumbles in a pocket, pulls out the little jar, pushes himself to his feet again—grimaces—walks over, and sets it even-more-carefully in her waiting palm.

“Thanks.”

He pats her hand in acknowledgement and steps back again. A moment later, his brain catches up with his body and he flushes. Pulls his scarf over his face a little. She is not Nott. He does not do that with her. She will not like it, it is weird, she will complain—

“Uh. Caleb?”

There it is.

“Sorry,” he signs. “Habit. It means—” He hesitates. It’s like _no problem_ , it’s like _fine_ , it’s like _of course_ —but it’s also like _I heard you_ and _I’m listening_ and _I’m here_ and—other things. It’s, it’s a lot of things, depending on the moment, and he’s not sure how to articulate all of them or whether that’s even a good idea or which thing he even meant, exactly.

“No, I know what it means, it’s cool.”

He blinks. Tries to process that. (She knows what it means? How? He’s never told her. Has Nott? Why would Nott tell her? That’s weird, isn’t it? —But that’s not important.) “You need something?”

“Nah. Just—can I see your hand a minute?”

“My hand?”

“Yeah,” she says, faux-casual. “Just for a minute.”

He furrows his brow, but complies, offering his left. “Why?”

“Checking something.” She takes his hand in hers, holds it a moment, then slides her hand up to his wrist, shifts her fingers—oh.

He opens his mouth to tell her that he is not dying, actually, there is no need to check his pulse—closes it with a _click_ as she drops his hand and punches him in the shoulder.

It does not hurt much—she didn’t hit the formerly-lightning-fried one, and didn’t hit very hard either—but he rubs the spot anyway, just for a moment. Then, frowning, “Why?”

“We had a deal, asshole.”

A deal…? Well, yes, but— “I already drank water. You saw me.”

“Not _that_ , before that. You said you’d tell me if shit got bad.”

The gears tick over in his head, slowly. He is pretty sure she means—breakfast. Promising not to check out on her. He is also pretty sure that that is not the same thing as promising to tell if he feels like he might check out on her later. It is just promising not to check out at all. That is different. Obviously. (If she wanted a promise like _that_ she should have asked for it.)

But the obvious difference is irrelevant, in any case, because— “I have not spaced out. I have not passed out, not fallen down, not gotten dizzy, not yawned, not—”

“No, but you’re all panicky. That counts, asshole.”

“You did not list that. And I am not panicking.”

“Bullshit.” She starts counting off points on her fingers. “You’re clammy as fuck, your pulse is through the roof, your hands are shaking. And you’ve been breathing funny for the last fuck-knows-how-long. _Don’t_ tell me how long,” she adds abruptly, glaring. “Or I’ll deck you. _Anyway_. Point is, either you’re fuckin secretly _dying_ —bleeding out or poisoned or whatever— _or_ you’re panicking. And I don’t see any blood, and nobody had poison, and you got the _good_ healing potion, so.” She pauses, squints. “ _Are_ you secretly dying?”

“No.” He feels for his own pulse despite himself. Elevated, maybe, but they are arguing, and his head hurts—it is to be expected. He lets go of his wrist, traces mindless lines up and down from the heel of his palm to the crook of his elbow.

Beau keeps squinting, like if she looks hard enough she’ll see the lie written in tiny letters on his face. Or maybe she’s looking for blood. (It does not matter. She won’t find either.) She nods, after a long moment, seemingly satisied. “Then you’re panicking. Or anxious, or whatever.”

“Knock it off! I am truly not,” he insists, and his fingers slip right back to his wrist after.

She scowls, signs back, “You knock it off!” Then, out loud, “You can’t bullshit a professional bullshitter. Specially not when you’re scratching your damn arms.”

Caleb frowns back—then stops. Goes still. Becomes acutely aware of the little stinging lines on his left forearm. He _has_ been scratching. (When did he start?) And that—well. It is usually, it is often. It can be a sign of. It.

She may not be entirely wrong, he concedes.

“Been doing that all afternoon.” The scowl deepens. She taps a fist against the side of her leg. “All day, actually. Cause you’ve been all _anxious_.”

Caleb thinks back over the afternoon, over the whole of the day. He _does_ remember scratching, a few times. Remembers thinking of—many things, each time. Remembers the bats in his chest and the burning and his own overloud breath and—

“...Oh.”

“Knock it off!” she signs again, twice as sharp. “Don’t act like you didn’t know.”

Caleb blinks. Tries to find a way to respond to that without making her angrier at him. Scrubs his cheek, at a loss and very, very tired. “Sorry,” he says at last, making a concentrated effort to look the part this time. “I truly did not know.”

“...You really mean that.” Beau frowns at him. (Angry? Thoughtful? Studying? ...Studying. Like he is Avantika’s cipher, or one of the anchors. A puzzle for solving.)

(He thinks of Trent’s piercing gaze, the cold mathematics behind his eyes, the quiet ticking of the clock.)

(He thinks of a moment like this—of trembling hands after an experiment, unnoticed until Trent pointed them out. Of his own surprise, and a series of pointed questions, and Trent’s eyes narrowing a fraction at the answers. Of a harrowing pause—and then warm praise, a brief lesson on the utility of compartmentalization, a clipped word of caution about self-awareness. And then more praise.)

His skin crawls.

(He thinks of another moment, leaning unsteady against a tree, too nervous and tired to eat, saying “Not hungry,” blinking in surprise minutes later at his growling stomach. Thinks of another set of eyes—Nott’s, honey-yellow, widening not in realization but recognition. Because of course she understood, without having to ask, without need it explained, that he had not been lying on purpose. Understood what had happened, and why, and that it would happen again, and—just understood. Because she was—is—Nott.)

Caleb closes his eyes against a fresh wave of exhaustion. (And, of course, when he prods the exhaustion _now_ , picks at it _now_ , it resolves itself into a patchwork scatter of wanting Nott here and wanting her safe and wanting to _hear from her_ to _know_ that she’s safe and loathing how long it’s been since he’s heard from her and seen her and had her by his side, and all the others as well, and—all the rest. Of course, of course _now_ —but not earlier. No. That would be—too easy, too convenient.)

“Well,” Beau says, and he startles, eyes snapping open. “You know now, yeah? And, uh—just so we’re clear. There’s not actually a list. Or. Not a set one. Like. Just, somethin feels up, even if you think it’s not a big deal, you can tell me about it, you know? Whatever it is. Don’t _have_ to, but like. You _can_.”

Caleb wants to nod, but it'll hurt, so instead he says “Okay” and keeps his head very, very still.

“Kay.” Beau crosses her arms. Uncrosses them, reaching slightly. Crosses them again, teetering on the verge of speech, and says nothing.

Caleb looks away. Crosses his own arms, hyperaware now of the little pink lines on them, intermixed with the thin white ones, and of the sinking burn in his chest. Drops them and loosens his scarf, just a little, because maybe that will help. (It doesn’t.)

He smothers a yawn behind his hand. Resists the urge to sway on his feet (it would be nice, the swaying, but with the headache it is a bad idea, so he does not do it). Just keeps still, and fiddles with the end of his scarf, and tries to remember what he was doing before Beau got all—before—

The concept slips away like. Like. Like something, he’s sure. Something slippery. (The metaphor is also slippery. That strikes him, faintly, as funny. He’d grin if he had the energy.)

“Hey,” Beau says.

“Mmh?”

“Sit down ’fore you fall down.”

He starts to slide back to the floor, but Beau shakes her head.

“Not _there_. On the bed, dumbass.”

Caleb sits on the bed.

“Lay down.”

Caleb lays back gingerly. Hurts.

“Need anything?” Her voice rings loud in the little room. Too loud. His ears rumble, his head aches. “Like you wanna talk or—?”

“Shhh.”

“Uh, sorry,” she says, quieter. “But _do_ you?”

Doesn’t hurt as much, but still makes his ears rumble-and-shudder. He winces. “I want quiet.”

“Oh. Uh—” Beau freezes for a moment, then signs, a little haltingly, “Okay. Quiet. I understand.” A pause. “You hurt?” she signs in front of her forehead, then winces as she shifts her weight to her other foot. “Same as.” A longer pause. “C-R-O-W-D-S?”

“Crowd,” he says reflexively. Then, after a moment to figure out what she means by _crowds_ (his...smaller episodes, when crowds are too much) and another to decide whether he wants to teach her the sign for _overwhelmed_ (not now, too much effort) and _another_ to actually consider the question, “Both.”

“You want space?”

His breath sticks in his lungs. “No.”

“Okay. You want...I don’t know, water?”

“Yes.” He doesn’t, actually, but it probably will not hurt, and while she is busy with her pack he will be able to close his eyes and stop moving, and that will be nice.

“Okay.” She turns and walks off.

He closes his eyes, listens to her footsteps retreating, uneven but quick—snaps his eyes back open. She is injured, her waterskin is empty, he drained it, she is going to have to leave the room, she is going to go downstairs she is hurt she is injured she is going to fall she is—

But she stops in the corner, picks up a pitcher he has not noticed from a table he has not noticed, pours water into a glass he has not noticed, and walks back. Holds it out.

He pushes himself back into a sitting position, takes the cup. Drinks, slow. Sets it on the bedside table, still half-full. (He is still thirsty, but the water sloshes in his stomach already, and the sound is terrible, and the feeling threatens to make him ill, and he does not—want that. He is pretty sure Beau does not want that either.)

“Thank you,” he says belatedly.

“It’s fine. You need something else?”

“Only sleep.”

“Okay. You wake up, I’ll be there.” She gestures to the chair in the corner, by the little table with the pitcher. It’s wicker, cushionless, has the smallest backrest Caleb’s ever seen, and abruptly he's a little more awake.

“No. Come here.” He pats the space beside himself.

“F-L-A-T-T-E-R-E-D, but I’m a lesbian.”

“Funny,” he says, deadpan. “You are hurt. You should sleep.”

Beau hesitates. “You sure you want to share?” A small pause. “Crowd. Too much?”

“Not crowd, sign cramped.” Then, “I do not mind.”

“Okay,” Beau says. “Move.”

Caleb scoots over. Scrunches his eyes shut—fresh pain. Slaps the mattress at his side, without opening his eyes.

The mattress dips. The pain doubles. Slowly, it fades back to a dull ache, and Caleb unscrunches his face, but keeps his eyes closed.

Lays there. One minute. Two. Listens to his own heartbeat, too loud in his ears, and tries not to pay attention to the flush in his chest or his cheeks or his arms—past buzzing into almost outright burning, matches under his skin, stones in his lungs. His shirt sticks to his sides, which crawl with Beau so close-but-not-touching.

...Beau.

Caleb’s eyes snap open. He slaps her shoulder.

“Nnh, wh—? Ow!” She smacks his hand away, turns her head, frowning, signs, “What?”

“Did you use the ointment.”

She gives him an uncomprehending look.

“O-I-N-T-M-E-N-T. Did you use it.”

“Oh.” A pause. She scrunches her eyes shut. “Shit. No. Forgot.”

“Use it,” Caleb says firmly.

Beau grumbles, but sits back up and rummages round the room until she finds the ointment again (after a bit of swearing, it turns up on the little table beside the pitcher of water). She limps back to the bed, unscrews the little tin, slathers ointment on her midsection. Sticks the lid back on, swipes her fingers on her pants, and chucks the tin across the room. She goes to lay back down again, and Caleb pokes her shoulder sharply.

She jerks away, winces, snaps out loud, “What?”

He winces.

“Fuck. Sh—” She shakes her head, makes a face as she signs, “Sorry. Forgot. What do you want?”

Caleb starts to answer, but it’s awkward, lying flat with her half-above him, so he stops, pushes himself sideways and back up. Waits out the headrush. Considers answering, reminding her that she should not lie down flat, not with her ribs, but—it’s a lot of words, and everything is buzzing, and he is so tired, and moving is—well, it is not hard, but it is slow, and he feels clumsy.

So instead he says “Wait.” Twists in place, trying not to move his head too much, and grabs both of the pillows from the head of the bed, and shoves them unceremoniously at Beau.

“I don’t need—”

“Use them anyway." A pause. “Or I tell Jester.”

Beau rolls her eyes and grumbles, but begins arranging the pillows.

Caleb lays back down, carefully, closes his eyes against the wave of pain that follows. When it stops, he says, “Raise your foot also.”

Dull pain blooms again as Beau prods the side of his head. Caleb blinks his eyes open, peers at her blurrily.

She points at the pillow under her foot. Possibly rolls her eyes, it’s hard to tell. “Yes, grandfather.”

“Funny,” Caleb says, flat-faced, and says nothing of how pleased he is that she extrapolated the word correctly.

“Very funny, yes.”

“Mm.” He closes his eyes again.

Beau muffles an annoyed sound and flicks him.

“Eyes tired.” He tries for an impish expression, but he's pretty sure he fails. Which is just as well. He's only half-joking anyway.

Beau sighs and flicks him again. “Fine,” she mumbles. (It's a little better than a whisper, but not much.)

“Mm.”

They lay there in silence. The only sound is Beau's breathing, and the still-thudding beat in Caleb's chest.

He tries to sleep.

He can't. He's so tired. His head hurts too much. He can't stop thinking. His hands are too empty, and the bed is too full. (Empty. Full. Empty.)

He slips a hand into his pocket and coils his finger in the copper wire.

Untangles it, snaps his fingers on autopilot. Frumpkin. Chestful of Frumpkin.

—There he is.

Caleb closes his eyes and tangles his fingers in Frumpkin's fur. Soft. Warm. Soft. Heavy. Not as heavy as a goblin woman, but—heavy.

Caleb breathes in. Caleb breathes out. Tries not to think too hard about how empty-full the bed is. Or how much his chest is burning. Or how long it has been burning. Or how stupid he has been not to realize what that must—

Tries not to think.

It doesn't work.

“Hey,” Beau says, quietly.

He jumps. “Nnh!” And then he groans. Head hurts.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Mmn.”

“Anyway. Budge up, I want blankets.”

Caleb sighs heavily and scoots under the blankets, then kicks them off, nudges them towards Beau.

She slips out of bed, then gets back in and pulls the covers over herself, rather than copy his awkward wiggle. (A wise choice with her injuries, Caleb thinks, and closes his eyes again.)

 _Thump_.

Caleb flinches a little as something—the blanket, he registers, a moment too late—lands on him, hits him a bit in the face. Once his head—his _head_ —stops complaining, though, he registers that the blanket is both soft and a little bit heavy. Not heavy _enough_ or soft _enough_ , but kind of nice. Kind of nice.

Frumpkin disagrees. He wriggles under the blanket, mrowing loudly, until Caleb frees him and sets him on top of the thing. Then he settles, curled in a little circle on Caleb’s chest, and begins to purr unprompted.

“You’re welcome,” Beau says.

“Mm.” Caleb scrubs his forehead, and his eyes, and his cheeks. Tries to ignore the headache. Pets Frumpkin.

“Night Caleb.”

“Mm.”

He listens to her breathing slowly even out. Tries to match his own to it. Halfway succeeds.

Beau shifts in her sleep. Winds up with her shoulders brushing his. The contact itches, a little, but not in a terrible way. It's almost nice. Almost grounding.

Caleb listens to her breathing a while longer, and eventually—terribly, awfully slowly—drifts off to sleep.

-

He does not dream.

-

He wakes to Beau shoving at his shoulder and a few half-hearted protests from his skull (the headache has lessened but not vanished).

“It’s Jester. She says—”

Beau falls silent and Caleb jackknifes upright and opens his eyes, certain in an awful sweeping way that something is _wrong_. He squints in the dark and finds a vague Beau-shape sitting beside him, unmoving, and something lodges itself just under his sternum. (Something pricks just over it, like thorns. A second later, it registers as _Frumpkin_ , clinging to his chest.)

Thirty-two seconds pass, and then Beau unspools, shoulders slumping, falling back on the bed. “Cool,” she says, closing her eyes. “We’re at the inn. Main road, can’t miss it. See you soon. Watch out for—” She pauses. “—beat-up folks. Two dwarves, two elves. We fought.”

Caleb counts her words as she says them, and the instant she says _fought_ , he taps her on the shoulder. (Frumpkin wriggles and drops to his lap.)

“Hold _on_! Ugh.” A pause, very short, four seconds, and then Beau sighs. “Yeah I think she's done now. She said everything’s okay, job’s done, and she’s sorry for not sending a message yesterday, and everyone’s fine, and they’ll be here soon." She scrubs her eyes. “Said they just passed that weird fuckin tree. So, fuck, I dunno, maybe twenty minutes? Less? They’re not on foot.”

Caleb squints. It’s eight minutes past three. Part of him wants to go back to sleep. The larger part doesn’t, knows he won’t, couldn’t if he tried. The others are so close now—he has to see them. Immediately. Right now. (Needs to hug Nott and shove Beau at Jester or Caduceus for immediate healing—and they must have the spells, and if they do not Caleb is going to. Well. He is going to understand but he is not going to be happy.) What does it matter the birds are not awake yet and he can hardly see his hand in front of his face.

Although. That is a point. It is a little odd that they are up so late. Working through the night to finish the job, he supposes. But it would have been better to sleep, surely, to regain spells? Or at least to rest now the job is done. Now they are all still awake, and heading this way, and that is good—but they must be exhausted. And they have twenty (now nineteen) minutes’ travel ahead of them. That is, assuming Beau has estimated correctly. She may not have. She does not, after all, have his knack for measuring time. The opposite, really—so who knows how long the others will be. Perhaps nineteen minutes (eighteen, now). Perhaps forty-five. Perhaps three hours. Perhaps they will hit a stumbling block, so to speak, and it will be another day, or perhaps—

“Caleb.”

He flinches. Collects himself, considers pulling up the words to ask what the hell she wants—decides it’s not worth it and casts Dancing Lights.

“Fuck, shit!” Beau presses her hands to her eyes. “Fuckin warn a guy!”

He waits til she pulls her hands down and then he asks, “What do you want?”

“Nothin. Was just gonna ask you to wake me when they get here, but uh—you good?”

“I will wake you, fine. And I am fine.” There is the headache, still, but it is hardly worth mentioning now, and he is wide awake so the exhaustion is not a problem either.

“Uh-huh. You’re sorta rocking a bit there though.”

He stills. Frumpkin stirs, begins to knead his leg.

Beau makes an aggravated noise and then winces, fingers ghosting over her now-very-purple ribs. “I didn’t mean you had to—just. You wanna talk about it?”

Caleb stares at her hands. “There is little to discuss. You should sleep.”

“You sure?”

“Truly sure. Sleep.”

“Kay.” Beau yawns. “We’re talking later though.”

“Okay.”

Beau lays back down gingerly, closes her eyes. Caleb watches, for a moment, then catches himself automatically recasting Dancing Lights and stops, lets them fizzle out.

He waits.

Beau's breathing evens out within three minutes. Caleb tugs the blanket up to her shoulders and turns to face the door.

And he waits.

Three minutes. Six. (Ten.) Twelve. (Twenty.)

He tries not to twitch out of his own skin.

Twenty-four. (Thirty.)

He pets Frumpkin from head to shoulders, again and again and again.

Thirty-two.

A knock on the door.

Caleb does not move. He reaches for his copper wire, winds it just so, and says, mouthing the words, more thought than speech, _Nott, is that you?_

A pause. Then, in familiar, scratchy tones—

_Yes, it's me! It's us! Let us in!_

Caleb stands, letting Frumpkin fall to the floor with a thump, leans back to smack Beau's shoulder a few times, and hurries to the door before she can smack back.

He opens it and there's Nott, barrelling into him, and he scoops her up and holds her close and he squints over her shoulder and there's Jester, and Yasha at Jester's side, and Fjord a half-step behind, and Caduceus awkwardly stooped in the hallway and it's all of them and they are here and safe and—

Caleb is dizzy with it, a little, or maybe giddy, or maybe just exhausted, so it takes him a moment to remember, takes hearing the bedframe squeak and Beau curse and then—

“Beauregard,” he says out loud, because his hands are full of clinging goblin. “Wait.” He looks from Jester to Caduceus to Yasha. “She, ah, her.” The words are tangled. “She needs...healing.”

Jester makes a forlorn sound. “Beauuu, you said you guys were fine! I wouldn’t have sent the second message if I knew you were hurt, I would’ve saved it.”

So Jester has no spells. Okay. Perhaps Caduceus…?

He's already gently pushing past Fjord, ducking lower under the doorframe, heading over to the bed. “I’ve got a little left. What seems to be the problem?”

“Just my ribs. Bastard used ’em for xylophones.”

“A xylophone,” Caleb says, his voice muffled in Nott’s hair.

“Shut up.” She sounds more sleepy than annoyed.

“Let me—ah. Actually, Mister Caleb, would you mind…?”

Caleb minds very much, actually, but nevertheless he sits on the edge of the bed with Nott still clinging to him and pulls out a glow-worm and lights up the room again.

“Thanks. Now let me see—ah. Okay. Well, give me a moment.” A beat, and then— “Well, it’s not perfect, but—”

“Nah, it's cool, thanks. I’m—”

“Let me.” Yasha steps forward. “It’s not much, but I—”

There is tugging on his scarf. He blinks down and there is Nott, tugging. “Mm?”

“Hi.”

“... _Hallo_.”

“I’m back.”

“You are back.”

“I'm sorry it took so long. I _told_ Fjord, I _said_ , I said I don't like this, said no good could come of this whole—splitting the party business. Terrible idea. Never goes well for us. Should've put my foot down.”

“Mm,” he says, though he wants to tell her it is not her fault. It was a group decision, and it is all done now, besides.

She brushes hair out of his face, sits back a bit. Squints at him, worrying her lip between her teeth. “...Are you okay?”

Caleb recasts his spell to buy time to think of an answer. Settles on a nod and, “Are _you_?”

“I'm fine. But you seem…” She makes a vague gesture that encompasses all of him and indicates exhaustion and—maybe nerves? It’s hard to read.

“I am fine.”

She squints harder. “Are you sure?”

“Sure.”

“You should get some sleep anyway.”

He shrugs.

“Lay down.”

He lays down, still half-holding her, then remembers to let go. She rolls off of him, as expected, and settles to his side. Wriggles in close. Sighs.

He smiles, just faintly. Tucks hair behind her ears. Listens, vaguely, for Yasha, and Caduceus, and Jester, in case they are still helping Beau—but they are murmuring amongst themselves and Beau is laying back on the bed, so Caleb lets the light go out.

No one protests.

Jester clambers up and lays at the foot of the bed. The others stretch out on the floor.

He listens to them settle. The squeak of the bedframe as Jester shifts. The swish of Caduceus’s sleeve, the dull clack of his armor on the wood floor. The clank of Yasha’s sword, the creak of the floorboards under her weight. The tiny, Fjordish sigh from the corner.

The double-quick thump of a goblin heartbeat. The steady breath of a monk.

He listens to others’ breath, also—loud, at first, exhausted, then softer, slower, quieter, as one-by-one and all-at-once they fall asleep. Much quieter. Near silent even to his well-trained ears.

Too silent.

Caleb bites his tongue and tries not to question the absence of snoring. (Beau will sleep before too long. She almost always does. And if she does not—well. A little rest and then he will have a spell to _make_ her sleep, if he must. Though he will, of course, ask first.)

He listens to everyone breathe instead. A cacophany of cadences. Familiar. Pleasant.

“Caleb.” Beau's voice. Gravelly, quiet. Less tense than it has been for several hours. (He thinks, he hopes. He is not sure. He hears a difference. He thinks it is relief.)

“Mm?”

“You good?”

“Mm. _Ja_.”

“Y’sure?” Before he can answer, she barrels on. “Cause you thought you were good earlier—”

 _And you were wrong_ , Caleb finishes, annoyed. She does not have to rub it in, or act like he is completely stupid, or—

“—and I thought I was good too, injury-wise, just kinda worried about the others, and. We were both wrong. We’re—you know.”

 _Oh_ , Caleb thinks. He closes his eyes against a sudden wash of shame. “We are not good at this.”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“So. You sure you’re good?”

Caleb thinks. He is very, very tired. His head still aches, a little. His tongue is thick and heavy. Nerves, perhaps, or thirst, or just the stubborn fog stealing his words. His stomach aches. Nerves, perhaps, or hunger, or soreness from the earlier beating. His chest is heavy and empty-full. Nerves, perhaps, or the fog, or a drawing melancholy, or—

Or the goblin forehead pressed against it, breathing muggy through the fabric of his shirt.

“...No,” he says. “I am not sure. But I am—better.” He closes his eyes. “Are you, Beauregard?”

For a long moment, silence. Then, “Yeah. Yeah, definitely. Healing helped. S’funny. Never know how fucked you are til it’s fixed, and then you’re like—” She must gesture, but he doesn’t see it.

Still. He thinks he knows what she means. “ _Ja_.”

“Yeah.”

“If,” he says, after a moment. “If it helps. There isn’t—I do not have a list either, Beauregard.”

“...Caleb,” Beau says. “It is way too late for this bullshit, I need you to be clear.”

Caleb makes a frustrated noise. He _is_ being clear. He does not know how to be any _more_ clear. “If—you—” He gives up casting about for words and just borrows hers. “If something is up. You can tell me.” He pauses. “Or I can—ask?” He pauses again. Pulls more words from further back. “We keep each other in check, _ja_?”

A pause. “Like—mutual check-ins? Failsafes, kinda?”

“ _Ja_.” That is—part of it. He is not sure how to convey the other part. Elects not to. “If you are—amenable.”

“...Nerd,” Beau says.

Caleb makes a noise of protest.

“I’m amenable,” she says. “Sure. S’long as you don’t nag me. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Great,” she says. “Now that we’ve established that—” She yawns. “—I’m going the fuck to sleep. Night.”

“Goodnight, Beauregard.”

“Sweet dreams and shit.”

“...And shit,” Caleb says, half on-purpose.

Beau rolls onto her side, reaches over Nott, and whacks his good shoulder. “Gonna kill you,” she mumbles.

“Mm.” He sends Frumpkin to her, lets his eyes slide shut, and waits.

A moment’s grumbling, some soft purring, and then, after mere minutes, much louder—snoring.

He smiles.

And, after a little while—six minutes, precisely—he begins to drift, himself.

-

He dreams of sewing floral patches on his sleeves, of little fey creatures punching his shoulders, of winding dirt roads.

Of sunlight through the treetops.

**Author's Note:**

> y'all can find me on tumblr at [arodrwho](http://www.arodrwho.tumblr.com)


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